


Hot Cider

by Gem_Gem, KittieHill



Series: Christmas Prompts [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A-Z Christmas Prompts, Cheek Kisses, Drunk John, Drunk Sherlock, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Friendship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock is a Mess, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, hot cider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:29:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21723790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: God they were drunk. Tipsy. Stupidly so. Irresponsibly so.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Christmas Prompts [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559605
Comments: 7
Kudos: 102





	Hot Cider

John stumbled through the doorway of 221B first, snorting with a wave of mischievousness when the door slammed open against the wall, his key still crookedly stuck in the lock. He hushed the door, the lock, the air, getting spittle on his own finger, and then fell to his knees to crawl the rest of the way inside, sharing an amused look and a full body burst of laughter with Sherlock, who was behind him, pointing in his direction, bent over in mirth with crinkled eyes and reddened cheeks. John hushed him too while he snagged hold of his trouser leg, tugging him in hard enough that Sherlock lost his balance and tipped into the coat rack with a whirling swinging of his arms. It brought more laughter from John, made his chest ache, his head spin, and the movement of his limbs harder to control.

God they were drunk. Tipsy. Stupidly so. Irresponsibly so.

John couldn’t remember how many pints he’d had, how many sips of different drinks and shots and strange alcoholic jelly things he’d tasted. All he knew was that he’d had enough to be unable to walk straight, to be incapable of rational thought. Some part of him wondered if his glass had been spiked with more alcohol than he had originally intended, that Donovan or Anderson had some part to play in his sudden downward spiral, but then he recalled how his drinks had never left his sight, of being nowhere near the two of them and in fact having to pull Sherlock away when he’d taken swing for them with tightly curled fists.

When had Sherlock started drinking?

A door creaked open nearby, dowsing them with sharp, bright, dizzying light, and Mrs Hudson peeked out with a frown of disappointment, “John, Sherlock, is that you? - What _are_ you doing?--”

“Yep! S'just us!” John laughed, reaching to hoist himself up using the banister, throwing out his arms when he'd got back to his feet. “Hudders! Darling Hudders! You–you are the _prettiest_ landlady in the _whole_ of London, d'ya know that?” Walking over, he took her into his chest for a shuffling, awkward dance in the doorway, singing 'Mistletoe and Wine' loudly.

“ _Oh_! Oh dear me, how much did you drink at that party?” she replied with a huff, smiling and rolling her eyes, dipping when he span her out onto his arm. “ _Careful now_!”

“Was all Lees – Las – _Greg's_ fault!” John insisted, falling partially into her living room on another spinning dip and having his senses invaded by a glorious smell with wide eyes. “Have you been baking?”

Nodding, Mrs Hudson extracted herself from John’s clumsy grasp, “Yes, love. I _did_ tell you that I was going to be making some shortbread. I asked if you wanted some, don’t you remember? You can have some now, if you want?”

“Shortbread,” Sherlock slurred with a bit of a lisp, still against the coat rack, eyes locked onto one of the hooks as if it was the most fascinating thing he'd seen all evening. “Yes. I ‘member.”

“Smells _gorgeous_ ,” John hummed, dropping a liquor sticky kiss to Mrs Hudson's cheek. “You do look after us, Hudders. What would we do without you?”

“I dread to think, most days,” she tittered, stroking back John’s sweaty hair. “Do you want some then? I have enough to spare.”

“Yep,” John grinned, putting his hand into Mrs Hudson's smaller one and reaching his other out to Sherlock, who was swaying ever so gently, turning at the flapping of John's fingers. “C'mon, Sherlock!” He gave Mrs Hudson a glance, sighing with an over-dramatic pout. “He wouldn't let me stop for a kebab. I'm _starving_.”

Mrs Hudson wrinkled her nose at the very idea of eating such a monstrosity, “Good thing too,” she murmured, leading John to where she’d laid out a plate of shortbread for herself, as well as a jug and glass of something steaming. Sherlock stumbled after them, banging his head into the door with a gasp and whine, mouth contorting in shocked upset. “Watch out, Sherlock! Goodness me. How could you not see—”

“Oh shit! _Head wound_!” John shouted dramatically, releasing Sherlock to push his hand over his forehead, feeling out his skull. “Do I need to kiss it better?”

Sherlock grumbled, slipping a narrowed glare at the door before thumping it with his palm in dislike, “Bloody… doors… _always_ in the way!”

“Less of that now,” Mrs Hudson told him in amusement, coming to take both of their hands. “Get some shortbread.” John allowed himself to be pulled along, humming happily to himself and then bursting into song once more, this time singing a song of his own creation 'I love shortbread,' to the tune of 'I love Candy' as he reached the table and took a piece, pushing it into his mouth with a throaty groan at the buttery biscuit melting on his tongue. “You really _have_ had a bit too much to drink. Why must you young ones go so overboard with it all?” Though she didn’t sound too stern about it, in fact she was grinning at him, eyes moving to Sherlock when he shuffled to pick up his own piece. “Did you enjoy it there? At the party?”

“S'alright” John shrugged absently, eyeing up another wedge which had lots of sugar on top. “They weren't horrible to Sherlock as much, Donovan and Anderson weren't. Lestrade gave him a hug. There was dancing. Was fun.” 

“A hug? That’s lovely! You need more hugs from friends,” Mrs Hudson told Sherlock merrily, who was blinking sluggishly at her and chewing. “You spend far too much time pushing people away, you know.”

“I don’t push John away,” Sherlock countered, dropping a heavy hand to John’s shoulder. “John is the _only_ one who matters.”

“You do sometimes push him away, Sherlock.”

“Do not.”

“Sherlock--”

“I do _not_!”

“ _Emotionally_ you do...” John couldn't help but chime in, pointing at Sherlock with a bit of shortbread, “You don't tell me how you're feeling, or even what you're thinking about, half the time. You keep me at arms length at all times.”

Sherlock scowled at him, “ _I do not_!” he argued and extended his arms forward, bumping them into John as he did so, with a pinching twist of his fingers to further prove his point. “ _See_? You’re nowhere near at arm's length. _Very_ close to me, actually. _Always_ close to me. We’re constantly rubbing elbows and… and touching hands. - And any-anyway, you don’t do that either. Talk about… _feelings_. Not one of us does it. We're not good at it. If I ever get near something, some sort of _feeling_ , you… you run away from me.”

John childishly blew a raspberry at him, “Oh whatever. I tell you stuff! We—Okay so maybe not _everything_ but I still tell you things that you don't tell me! - Mrs Hudson! Tell him!”

“John is a little more open than you are, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson nodded. “You tend to think people should just figure out what is—”

“It’s not _my fault_ you’re all stupid!” Sherlock exclaimed around his next large mouthful of shortbread, getting crumbles down his front.

“ _You're stupid_!” John shouted back, getting heated as he jabbed two fingers into Sherlock's torso, pushing him back and crowding in. “You don't see _anything_! Not really! You think you do but you're _oblivious_!”

Sherlock gaped at him, lips parted in shocked offence at John’s cutting words, and threw the remaining piece of biscuit at him, eyes glistening quickly with tears, “I observe _everything_! More than you! More than _anyone_!”

“Alright, alright, calm down, the both of you!” Mrs Hudson rebuked and took their arms to try and steer them to her sofa, huffing when they both refused her. “Sit down before you fall down--”

“I want a drink,” John grumbled and clasped for the glass filled with warm liquid, lifting up to gulp down in four large mouthfuls. He burnt pleasantly on its way down his throat and settled warmly as he wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “Tha's good. What is it?”

“Well, it _was_ my hot cider,” she laughed. “Liked it did you? That was homemade too.”

John hummed, eyebrows knitting tightly, “Never had hot cider before. S'nice. - Sherlock, do you want some cot hider? I mean… hot cider?”

Still looking upset with a very, very watery gaze, chin crumpled up and trembling, Sherlock looked and turned up his nose at it, “ _No_.”

“Oh, _go on_ ,” Mrs Hudson urged him, looking between them both with a long sigh. “Tell you what, how about I load another plate of shortbread for you to take upstairs and enjoy together? I'll even give you half of my hot cider? I still have quite a bit left. What do you think, hm? - Yes, I think so, come on, let’s give you something to munch on while you wait to sober up.” Leaving them with a pat on each arm, she shuffled into her kitchen and gestured out towards the stairs. “You two go on up. Slowly and carefully, mind. And I’ll bring it all for you, so there’s no spillage.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. - Sherlock?” John reached out for his friend, feeling a heavy weight of regret when several tears fell down Sherlock's cheeks. “Look, m'sorry I upset you. Let's go upstairs. I didn't mean it...”

“Yes you did,” Sherlock grumbled, crossing his arms but allowing John to take hold of his shoulder and push him up the stairs. He tripped and stumbled as he went, skidding his shin against the edge of one step, until he took hold of the banister and steadied himself. John hushed his whinging and pushed close, face getting buried into the back of Sherlock’s coat when he tripped too, caught from smashing his knees by Sherlock quick backwards lean. “See, I’m _not_ oblivious!” 

John groaned, his alcohol addled brain unable to process a response until he had walked them into the living room, helping Sherlock balance before turning in front of Sherlock and unbuttoning his coat, “I know… you're the _most_ observant person I know… I just—I was just being stupid. M'always stupid.”

Nodding, Sherlock sniffed and barely moved to help John remove his coat, then his scarf, only blinked rapidly at the Christmas tree, the corners of his mouth tugging down, “And you _do_ run away…”

“I do,” John admitted, “Because I'm cowardly when it comes to things like that. Emotion, _sentiment_ … feelings. It's hard for me to explain.” He reached for Sherlock's hand and held it gently, enjoying the warmth coming off the expansive area of his palm. “I've _never_ been good at it.”

“I _hate_ sentiment,” Sherlock replied with a brief, loose and wonky sneer, stumbling as he stepped closer to John. For a moment, John thought he was going to embrace him, going to gather him in, going to squeeze where he so ached to be squeezed, but then Sherlock slipped aside to drop onto their sofa, dragging John along with him through the tether of their hands, bringing him down half on top of Sherlock in the process. “I _hate_ it. Don’t want it. Makes everything…” He gestured with his free hand, whacking John on the nose, and snorted out a giggle, cupping John’s cheek in apology. “See. _Close_. You’re so _very_ close.”

“Yeah, because you pulled me on top of you...” John replied, an immediate spark rushing through him like a wild electric current, the sensation coated with arousal as he realised their hips were pressed together. Lost on the intoxicating mixture, more intoxicating than the booze that still effected him, he leaned down and nuzzled his nose across Sherlock's warm cheek, falling into the motion, into the need, the pulling and raising desire. “You smell _good_.”

“I know,” Sherlock retorted with a smug tone, petting down John’s neck and taking hold of his coat collar. “Lestrade said so too. Kept... kept putting his big nose against my throat.”

“I like Lestrade,” John mumbled idly, shimming and wiggling in an attempt to take his coat off, breath taken at the friction it created against Sherlock's waist, then his thick muscled thigh. It took all of John's will power, the limited amount of his brain that was still a bit sober, to focus on not simply just taking off all his garments. “Should we move? I feel like we _should_. This isn't going to be right... or comfortable... or end well.”

Sherlock let out an annoyed breath through his nose and shoved at John, “Get off then,” he groused sullenly, getting them tangled together when his hand somehow ended up slipping down John’s sleeve, their arms hooked. It was difficult to understand how it had happened, how to get untangled, how it didn't hurt any of them, and so John slapped out, vision swimming when he bent his neck to try and figure it out. " _John_!" Sherlock squirmed with a grunt, knocking him sideways with one flexible leg, and arched with a long moan of frustration. " _Get off_!" 

“Oh good gracious!” Mrs Hudson gasped, choosing that moment to arrive. Obviously, because why would she arrive at any other time?

“Hi, Mrs Hudson...” John groaned, trying desperately not to respond to the stimulation, addled brain making it more and more difficult to regain control of his body. He couldn't get an erection though, he just couldn't. Not here. Not now. Gritting his teeth, John tried not to let the ridiculousness of the moment pull a laugh from him, tried not to give in and rub into Sherlock to get him to realise and to stop moving, and bucked to throw himself from the sofa completely, turning to try and hide his growing stiffy. They both slid to the floor together in a heap.

“You two shouldn’t be doing that. Not when you’re… well… when all control is compromised,” she advised them, coming over to put a plate of shortbread, as promised, and a small jug of hot cider on the coffee table. With them neatly placed and ordered, she then went to the kitchen to gather two cups, pouring a bit of the cider into each. She then looked at them, her eyes gleaming in entertainment. “Do either of you need help?” 

“ _No_!” John shouted, eyes wide. “No! No, we're good. - And we weren't doing anything… not really… we just – _fell_.”

“Of course you did, dear,” she replied, standing back when Sherlock started to scramble around inelegantly, one of his shoes coming off.

“It's _true_! Tell her, Sherlock!” John's cock was throbbing, alcohol only making the urges all the more prominent, and John tried to think anything that wasn't Sherlock's neck, hips, thighs, his lips!

“He was taking my coat off,” Sherlock told her, which only made things worse and made Mrs Hudson’s lips curve into a knowing grin. "Then he sniffed at me."

“Oh my—” John grimaced, rubbing his face with his hands, trying to get a grip, to sober up, to away from being so warmly piled upon Sherlock with a raging boner. “Where's the cider? I suddenly have an urge for _more_ alcohol...”

“Oh no, it doesn’t have alcohol in it,” she replied. “You can put it in there but--” John cut her off as he pushed resolutely up on his feet, uncaring that his coat was still half on, that Sherlock was still somehow linked with him, and made a fumbling sprint to the kitchen. “ _Careful_!” Mrs Hudson quickly moved the coffee table out of his way, covering her face with amusement when Sherlock was yanked across the floor, trailed a few feet behind John before he was finally, successfully separated. “Goodness me…”

“Did we even _have_ any spirits in?” John asked Sherlock's crumpled form, although he wasn't really wanting an answer, and went rummaging through the cereal cupboard to where they usually kept their small alcohol stash. He snatched for the rum and opened it, giving it a sniff while he walked back to the hot cider jug, and then poured a long few splashes into it. Adding a big drop to the cup Mrs Hudson had already put out for him as well, to take a sip of the mixture, feeling the alcohol ignite its way down in the most pleasant of ways.

“You _really_ shouldn’t drink anymore, John,” Mrs Hudson told him with a tut. “You’ve had quite enough for one night.”

“M'fine,” John shrugged, returning to the kitchen to make some toast or a sandwich. "Here, I'll have something to absorb some of it. Give it less of an impact." After a few moments of fiddling, however, he decided he couldn't really be bothered with the effort of it all and simply took out a slice of bread to eat. “It's nearly Christmas, you're allowed to over indulge.”

Tutting again, Mrs Hudson shuffled to help Sherlock get back onto the sofa, “I will _not_ be cleaning up any sick, I'll tell you that now!”

“No one is going to be sick!” John scoffed, still munching, “All will be good. Great. _Amazing_! - After we finish the shortbread and hot cider, we're going to eat a little something more, have a lot of water and then go to bed.” 

“ _You better_ ,” she told them with a stern and motherly nod, taking the rum with her and eyeing them up as she left through the kitchen door. “Keep the noise down as well. I don’t want to have to come back up here!”

“Yes mum,” John joked with an eye roll. “We promise we'll be quiet.”

As she disappeared, giving them another tut for good measure, Sherlock reached for a shortbread slice and his cup of hot cider, “Too early to go to bed.”

“Mm. Yeah. I'm not ready for bed yet either. So, um, shall we go sit down in the chairs?” John nodded towards the armchairs facing one another. “Can just sit and chat for a bit?”

“Why would I move?” Sherlock questioned briskly, sniffing at and sticking his tongue into his drink, before having a sip, then a massive gulp, smacking his lips together at the taste. "I'm comfy. I like the sofa."

John chuckled and shrugged, “Guess I'm just used to seeing you opposite me when we talk. You can stay there then and I'll take my chair… or do you want me to sit with you?”

“ _I don’t care_!” Sherlock complained, throwing his head back and only just missing the wall. “ _Why_ are you asking me these _stupid_ questions?”

“Alright, alright! Shut up,” John replied and wandered over, flopping down beside Sherlock heavily, making the sofa seats roughly bounce under him. “I've had a good day today, so don't spoil it with your childish whining.”

Sherlock, muttering moodily at how John’s arrival had caused him to spill some of his drink, shot him a sideways glare, “So you've kept saying. Esp-esh-Especially to Lestrade.”

“He's a good bloke,” John said, lifting his cup in a toast and looking at the ceiling, at the Christmas decorations and the few that reflected his own face back at him in distorted reds and greens. “To Lestrade. The least annoying member of the Yard.”

“He _kissed_ you,” Sherlock murmured, lifting his eyebrows and giving a deep nod, then an elbow nudge. “I saw it.”

“ _Wha_? No... no he didn't!” John loudly denied, even when the blurry, wobbly, rippling memory of the night came back to him. “ _Well_ , okay... but only sort of, not _properly_! He kissed my cheek and a bit of my ear when he gave me a hug. That wasn't— That s'not a _kiss_.”

“Was to,” Sherlock retorted. “The def-definition of a kiss is a touch or caress of the lips as a sign of love, sexual desire, or _greeting_. So he most cer-tian-ly _did_. He _kissed_ you. He kissed you and you didn’t seem to mind…” He took a slow blink and then frowned, the crease of his nose appearing. “ _Why_?”

“Why what?” John returned in slight confusion. “Why didn't I mind? Because – _well_ – because it _wasn't_ a proper kiss. With lip meeting lip. That's intimate. While as the other thing, the thing he did, that's... not. That's nothing really. Just a friend thing...”

“...A friend thing?” Sherlock questioned quietly, gaze unfocused. “So, Mike has kissed you too then? He's your friend.”

“What? _No_!” John laughed and then went quiet, another memory triggered, though he couldn't quite see it, couldn't grasp onto it as securely as he could the other, more recent, recollection.“Actually… wait... I... I think... was that— _No_. No, I haven't. I thought I did for a second there but it was another guy that I snogged at a party when I was a junior doctor, it wasn't Mike...”

Sherlock stared at him in the thick, tense silence after John had spoken, not even breathing, then inhaled sharply, “You _snogged_ another man?”

John looked down into his drink, swirling it around a little, what he'd just shared dawning on him, and gave a half shrug, taking hold of the moment to give more, to open up, to disclose and reveal something he hadn't in a long time, “Man. Men. Couple of men, a couple of times. Nothing serious...”

“ _Hm_.” Sherlock unexpectedly began to laugh, softly at first, and then louder, harder, until he was red in the face and wheezing for breath. It was wild, unrestrained, and manic. He laughed until he curled forward, almost spilling more of his hot cider, his shortbread piece tumbling to the floor.

“Er – You okay, Sherlock?” John asked in bewilderment, reaching a hand out to touch Sherlock's knee as he felt the crazy, raising need to laugh along with him build within. “Are you... are you having a reaction to something I said? Is it... um... is it shock that I've—”

“Nothing serious!” Sherlock got out breathlessly, throwing his arms up in a small, exaggeratedly non-committal shrug, now definitely spilling his drink. It splashed on the sofa and dribbled down his hand. "You... I... and you had... but it's _nothing_!"

“It – it wasn't?” John replied, wondering what the hell was wrong with his friend and still trying to fight the contagious need to chuckle with him, more secrets clogging up his throat to escape. “I mean… th-there... there was one, you know, where there might have been sparks, but I didn't want to fuck up the friendship, so I didn't do anything... but the others were just kisses. Bored, lonely, and a _little bit_ curious pecks on the mouth.”

Sherlock nodded, biting hard on his bottom lip, “ _Obviously_!” he choked, pointing at John and then poking him repeatedly in the chest. “I _knew_. That’s what’s the _most_ funny thing. Th-that I knew!” He snorted and downed the rest of his hot cider, grabbing for two more pieces of shortbread to push into his mouth, still laughing as he chewed and shook his head. "I don't know... why I... I _don't know why_ I'm..."

“Yeah... I... I don't… I don't know either. I don't understand...” John whispered, chest jolting as one small roll of laughter burst from him. “I don't know why that's funny? I – I'm _confused_.”

“ _A friend thing_ … but also it isn’t, is it?” Sherlock scoffed, voice muffled behind sugar as he nodded again, rubbing his nose with his wrist. “Don’t… don’t want to _fuck it up_.” 

The strange inflating bubble of laughter finally exploded and he giggled, short and quick, then bending forward with huge guffaws that made his stomach and lungs ache with each gasping inhale. He had no idea why he was laughing, not a clue why Sherlock was, but John couldn't stop. “It's _true_!” he finally managed, “I'm... I don't think I'm gay… probably not even bi... but I sometimes like a certain type of... type of man. And has to be someone I trust...”

Sherlock poured himself another shaky cup of hot cider, coating the coffee table with a few puddles of it, and coughed out another laugh, “Not me then!” he announced, spraying crumbs and then washing it all down with one swig. Turning to John, Sherlock fell towards him, pointing at his own face, at his wobbly grin. “Don’t trust me. Never will and probably _never did_!” He exhaled a wet, gargled chuckle and then blinked, copying John’s forming frown. “Don’t trust me though, do you? I’m not even… even one of the friends you’d… you’d…”

“ _What_? Woah now…” John reared back, shaken at the sudden twist and turns of the conversation. “I didn't – I _haven't_ … Jesus...” He drank more of his cider, getting himself steady, and rubbing his face, firmly digging into what remained of his alcohol grown confidence. “I would— _Have_ thought about it. Probably _too much_. I trust you with my _life_ , Sherlock… you should know that. We... we're, you know, like a pair of socks. We only suit each other... yeah?”

“Relationships… not really my area,” Sherlock mumbled unhelpfully, lips and chin wet with cider. “I said that. Me. Said it and… meant it too…” His forehead furrowed deeply and he made a whining noise of irritation, leaning closer, clawing at his eyes, his mouth. “I’m _drunk_.” Swallowing and squinting at John’s face, he tilted his head and his mouth began to turn down again in upset. “Don’t know what I _want_ anymore… don’t… don’t recognise what I _see_! - I can't... I can't _think_... I can't... I don't know what I'm even _saying_!”

“Try. Try and explain it?” John mumbled softly, feeling a flaring thrum in his chest, an odd feeling beneath his ribs and the back of his mind, as he turned closer to look at Sherlock. “Do you—Have you ever had a relationship?”

“... Relationship,” Sherlock muttered quietly, his voice shaking, “Noun. The method in which two or more people, or things, are linked, or the position of being connected; Being affixed by blood or marriage; How two or more people, or groups, view and act towards each other; An... _emotional_ and _sexual_ association between two people…”

“Yeah… thanks Oxford dictionary,” John laughed playfully, trying to lift the souring and twisting atmosphere. “But I'm asking _you_. Personally. Have you ever been _connected_ with another person?”

Sherlock’s eyes filled once more with tears, “My family,” he uttered. “Victor... he was nice. I got on with him. ”

“Victor was a... a friend?” John asked tentatively, “Or – more?”

“More?” Sherlock repeated with another frown and a shake of his head. “No. No more...”

“Did you _want_ it to be?” John probed, looking down at his cup and wondering why, exactly, he was pushing for the answers and if he really should. “Did you want to be _more_ than friends? With Victor--”

“Only person who wants more from me is Molly,” he said, giving a choking laugh, either not wanting to answer John’s question or not fully hearing it. “ _Poor_ Molly… Molly, Molly… _Molly_ … I like Molly... and I’m _horrible_ to Molly.”

John shuffled in and wrapped an arm around Sherlock, bringing him closer so that his forehead came to rest on John's shoulder, “Molly understands. She knows you – has known you a long time. And… and I think she knows that you're, er, not _really_ into her? Into her... gender? If I'm right?” 

“She doesn’t know _anything_. Hopes all the time,” Sherlock sighed and then lifted his head, turning to squash his nose into John’s cheek. “I give her that silly hope. Mixed… signals… and now I know what it’s like…”

John shushed him, “She'll understand. I think you just need to come clean and … and… _wait_.” Blinking, he pushed Sherlock back a bit so he could look at him, could watch his features. “ _Mixed signals_?”

“Mm. Yes. I flirt with her sometimes,” Sherlock admitted with a wincing smile. “Then other times I… I push her away. Never really telling her anything outright, you know? Never really _denying_ her. - I’m… I’m so horrible like that...”

“You're _not_ horrible,” John insisted, putting a hand on Sherlock's cheek and gently cupping, lifting his face up. “You're the _least_ horrible person I know. You're the only person, and I mean the _only_ person, that I actually like seeing on a day-to-day basis. You're the _only_ person I look forward to seeing. You're not horrible. _Not one bit_.”

Sherlock scoffed and then nudged his brow against John’s, “ _Liar_ ,” he giggled. “I’m horrible to you too.”

“Only a tiny bit. A playful sort of horrible,” John replied with a giggle of his own, jostling Sherlock slightly, “like when you blame me for the existence of glitter, but then you do _incredibly_ sweet and loving things like that scrapbook. Things that absolutely _blow my mind_ with how _brilliant_ they are--”

“Firstly, _no_ , you're _wrong_! I did _not_ blame you for the exi-exist-existence of glitter!” Sherlock exclaimed suddenly, shoving John’s shoulder and leaning his head away to wave his index finger into his face. “I blamed you for the exist-existence of the glitter that erupted into my _face_ because it was _your doing_!”

“Well, whatever it was I wasn't responsible for!” John laughed, holding up his hands and then using them to wave the whole thing away dismissively, not wanting to get back into it, “What I said... it still right. You aren't really being horrible. Not _really_. And... I must say that I was glad of it. The glitter thing...” He saw that Sherlock about to launch into another tirade and pressed a finger to his lips, shutting him up. “Because sitting on your bed, fussing with your hair, and looking at that scrapbook made me _happy_ – Probably happier than I've been in a _long_ time.”

Exhaling against the digit, wetting it slightly, Sherlock gave him a smile, “Hm. What about today? You said today was a good day?” he asked. “ _Why_?”

John hesitated, thinking about his next comment as much as he could with his alcohol still sloshing around his brain, “Be-because I was with you.”

“Not for the whole day you weren't!” Sherlock told him, still talking against John’s finger and leaning against it enough that it squished his lump lips. "Neither were you before that..."

“Okay, _fine_!” John exclaimed, half amused and half annoyed. “Because I got to get drunk with you, and eat shortbread, and laugh and sing and mess around. Because we got to be childish and ridiculous. Because I get to sit on this sofa with you and let you rest your head on my shoulder. Because I _really_ want to kiss you--”

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered heavily for a moment and then he pushed John’s hand aside, “Wh-what?” he breathed.

John cringed, even as his heart thundered, even as a weight slipped off him at the admittance, and rubbed at his mouth, balancing his cup precariously on his lap. He really should have stopped drinking when he got home. Clearing his throat, he looked away from Sherlock and steeled himself, “I've had the urge to... to kiss you… for a while. Kind of. But if you don't want to then... well, I understand and I'm _really_ sorry that I've overstepped. We can blame it on the booze if you want? I mean, because it is, isn't it? The booze? I'm... not sober and... and you're not sober... and I— _God_ , I'm so _fucking stupid_.”

“Like… how Lestrade kissed you?” Sherlock asked and awkwardly swayed in, knocking John’s arms out of the way and head-butting him to get to John’s cheek, not waiting for an answer nor a response before he roughly thudded his hot, wet mouth into John’s skin. "Like... like _this_?"

Reaching up, John held Sherlock's head in place and played with the hairs at the nape of his neck softly, tightening his hold onto that lingering bit of confidence, “N-not _exactly_. I... I meant a kiss kind of kiss. On the... on the _lips_.”

Moving away, Sherlock, dazed and open-mouthed, looked at him, “ _Lips_ …” he repeated. “I can… do that… I… I’ve _wanted_ …” Trailing off into a quiet and incoherent babble, Sherlock swayed back in again, sweet breath mixing with John’s, and tilted his head. He stopped, inches away from them connecting though, and then frowned, rocked to one side dazedly, and retched into his quickly cupped hands. “Oh… _oh God_ , oh no, I…” At the second retch he stumbled to his feet and dashed carelessly towards the bathroom, knocking into things on his way and then vomiting, loudly, into the toilet. 

Stunned, John stared at the place where Sherlock had once sat and tried to figure out how the hell things had gone so wrong. He finally had the chance, the opportunity, to feel Sherlock's lips against his own and then... nothing. He blinked, turning to look in the direction of the bathroom, and grimaced when Sherlock gagged. He didn't sound well at all. Not one bit. So John peeled himself from the sofa in a small stupor and headed to the kitchen, filling up a glass with some cool water before entering the bathroom and kneeling down.

Flushing the chain, John supported Sherlock and handed him the water, “ _Small_ sips...”

Hacking and spitting, Sherlock took a shaky breath, hiccuped out a small, angry, sob, and clenched the glass, “It… it was that… that _cider_!” he blamed.

“... I don't know. I would say it was probably all the shortbread on top of the cider,” John mumbled, taking Sherlock's hair and stroking it back from his clammy face. “I don't think _any_ of it was a good idea really...”

“It as _your_ idea! Yours and Mrs Hudson’s!” Sherlock complained, burping for a moment and then hunching back over the toilet to heave. John winced, rubbing his back and pushing down on his own sudden wave of nausea, not wishing to join Sherlock in communal vomiting. Sherlock paused enough to take some more sips of water and swilled his mouth out with another sip. “ _Oh dear God_ …” 

“Yeahhh…” John replied, kneeling and stretching up so he could wet his hands under the tap and place them on the back of Sherlock's neck, massaging the scorching tension. “Are you feeling any better though?”

“I was feeling perfectly… _perfectly_ fine before!” he muttered, spitting and reaching for some toilet paper to wipe his mouth. “Now I feel… _sick_ with… with every swallow. - I can smell it in my _nose_ …”

Snorting, John wrapped his arms around him in a gentle cuddle, holding him, “We should probably go to bed… get some rest...” he said. “And, um... what... what about if I stayed downstairs with you? In your room I mean, to keep an eye on you?”

“In case I choke on my own vomit, you mean?” Sherlock snorted, grabbing for some more toilet paper and blowing his nose. “All right.”

“Alright, now, hold on until I get up. Don't want us to _both_ fall over,” John insisted, using the bath to help himself to his shaky feet first. There was a moment of jostling, of John wrapping his arms awkwardly around Sherlock, then they looked at one another, leaning in, bumping noses, before the smell of sick broke whatever moment was trying to manifest and John cleared his throat, nodding to the adjoining door. “Do... do you want me to wait through there? Let you clean yourself up and whatnot?”

“Clean myself up? Am I… am I _dirty_?” Sherlock questioned, looking himself over with a small scowl of embarrassment. "I thought I had got here in time?"

“ _No_! No, _God_ , no I just meant...” John groaned and rubbed his neck in frustration, gesturing then at the bathroom. “ _You know._ Your routine for bed? Washing face, brushing teeth, using the loo etc?”

Sherlock chuckled, “ _Oh_! Yes. I… want to brush my teeth and urinate at the _very_ least,” he murmured, slumping into John. “All that… um… all that _convulsing_ made me… made me aware of _other_ bodily fluids...”

“I'll go upstairs and get my pyjamas on then, while you do that and… I'll see you in a minute.” He hesitated at the doorway, wanting something, needing it, unable to ignore it, and turned back to kiss Sherlock on the cheek, just below his ear. “Yeah... so... see you in a minute.”

It took John a bit longer than he would like to admit to manoeuvre up the stairs to his bedroom, and even longer still for him to take off his jeans and jumper, which seemed to get stuck on every limb, but he managed after a few false starts. As he undressed, then tried to redress, mind sluggish and struggling, he thought over what had happened, over what had been said, had been done, and what this meant for them now. Was it only the drink that had led to this? Or was it the discussion about personal topics and desires? Why had he reacted the way he had and why did Sherlock look so utterly thrilled at the idea of a simple kiss? 

John had to admit that he didn't know, not with state he was in. He didn't understand any of it completely. Couldn't work out just what had happened to him, to them. 

The bathroom light was off when he returned and so John made his way into Sherlock's bedroom, only just making out the bundled up figure under the covers in the darkness. Smiling at the soft snores that penetrated the space between them, trying not to trip and fall onto his face, and made his way around the bed to climb on top of the covers. It felt weird to be in the gloom of Sherlock's room, surrounded by his scent and warmth, with Sherlock asleep only a few inches away, yet he found himself turning onto his side, tangling his fingers into Sherlock's curls, and slotting a little bit further behind him anyway.

“Goodnight, Sherlock."

**Author's Note:**

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